


Anchor Watch

by MisMisto



Series: Tell me if you can, Helmsman; what is it that you have created? [1]
Category: Breach: The Archangel Job
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Informant-turned-vigilante Raphael, Light Angst, Mild Blood, Pre-Relationship, Reader-Insert, Self-Doubt, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25030777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisMisto/pseuds/MisMisto
Summary: “Rage that’s not controlled is a waste. What you can do with it is to let it out by, say, writing down what you’re feeling. Rationalize it. But, if you insist on physicality,” he pats the bag with a light punch. “…you can learn to use it."Raphael feels the pressure of being under the scrutiny of those closest to them, and they try to let it out the only way they know how. Michael shows them a better way.
Relationships: Michael & Raphael (Breach: The Archangel Job)
Series: Tell me if you can, Helmsman; what is it that you have created? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999360
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	Anchor Watch

It plays in your head constantly. The moment of truth. Time unfolding around you as you look up from the barrel of Gabriel’s rifle and at your reflection upon its wielder’s eyes, words of admission spilling from your mouth without reservation, blood pulsing out of your burning wound and the frozen gazes of your allies. You could clearly see the hesitation in their eyes, and it had made dread build up in your throat like bile. You saw that just for one moment you were just another asshole cop to them, one who was stupid enough to think they could infiltrate the Archangels and destroy it from the inside out. One they should’ve left in that prison to rot. Sure, they might have changed their minds about it now, but you’re sure they wanted you dead right then and there. Because why wouldn’t they, after all you’d done. And don’t even get started on trust. No, they’ll likely never put their trust in you ever again, not after you squandered it so very badly. Even if you had decided to cut ties with the FBI before the attack at the Mill, you were still chatting with Reville like old friends, and instead of telling Gabriel what you were doing when you had the opportunity, you slinked back to your corner wordlessly like you always do.

You fucking _coward_.

You throw a brutal kick, feeling the bubbling mass of anger shoot out from the centre of your chest and travel through your leg and into the punching bag. It recoils with the impact and sways away from you, and you wait for it to gain momentum before you throw consecutive punches to slow its descent. It comes to a halt and you steady it with your hands, patting its sides gingerly as an apology. You doubt it’s terribly happy about being thrashed around by some unhinged criminal at six o’clock in the morning, but we can’t always have what we want. You sigh and push stray hairs out of your eyes with the corner of your glove, then delve once more into the corner of your mind to pluck another memory, a lingering piece of bad times, and start beating it out of your system. You’re briefly dragged back as your senses alert you of footsteps approaching. You recognise them, so you shake away the tinge of panic and continue throwing punches. Out of the corner of your eye you see light playing on the surface of the wall, the shadowy figure growing longer and darker as it approaches. Some of the shadows fall onto your face as it drums its lanky fingers on the side of the doorway and tilts its head curiously. You glance over your shoulder and smile in greeting.

“Morning, Michael.”

“Good morning.” He nods at you, and leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “You’re up early.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So are you.”

“I have something to take care of outside of the Archangels. I want to be done with them by noon, so I’ll be leaving in a bit.” He gestures in your direction. “ _You_ , on the other hand should be resting. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

You sigh, rubbing your eyes when you feel fatigue weighing on your eyelids. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d work my muscles a bit instead of sitting around doing nothing.”

“That’s reasonable. What’s not so reasonable, however, would be to keep going and having Raquel redo even more of your stitches.”

You frown. “I don’t feel anything.”

His voice distorter does nothing to hide the amused lilt of his voice. “Sure you don’t.”

Come to think of it, you _do_ feel something sticky oozing down your leg, but it’s probably sweat… Except when you look down you come to realise that sweat isn’t supposed to be bright red.

“Oh.” You mutter. “She’s… going to kill me.”

Michael chuckles lowly, shaking his head. “Probably. But at least she will put you back together afterwards.”

You lean against the bag with your elbow and stretch your leg to get a better look at it, and right on cue you can feel a thin string of pain jump at you seemingly out of nowhere. “That’s reassuring,” you manage, wincing.

Michael nods, then pushes himself off the wall and saunters towards you. “Raquel’s stitching is rough, but they’ll never rip when you’re fighting or training.”

“Then why did it rip now?”

“Because you’re doing neither.” He looks down at your leg, then back at you. “You’re not using technique, not gauging your opponent’s moves. You’re using this…” he rests his hand on the bag and puts a stop to its gentle swaying, “…as a means to let out your frustration as quickly and as recklessly as possible.”

You sigh. He’s not wrong, so you nod and wait for him to continue. “Rage that’s not controlled is a waste. What you _can_ do with it is to let it out by, say, writing down what you’re feeling. Rationalize it. But, if you insist on physicality,” he pats the bag with a light punch. “…you can learn to use it. You could adapt your style to accommodate the rough edge of your blows. In your current state you lack finesse, which is usually what you rely on the most. Fast, accurate blows, evasive manoeuvres, throws or strikes are simply not an option right now.”

You can’t help but feel a tad self-conscious when you think about how closely he could’ve been watching you, possibly seeing every slip-up that you’ve been trying to mask with your speed. Keeping yourself grounded has always been one of the hardest things for you.

“My advice,” he continues, “is to prepare yourself for the opponent to come to _you_. Think of it as a cage around your chest that’s rooted to the ground, and not something you should lash out.” He steps away and takes position, his feet aligned, knees only slightly bent and his hands at his sides. He towers over you, and he looks straight at the bag with his chest held firmly straight. “Power your blows with your hips.” In the blink of an eye he shifts and throws a punch that has the bag reeling away so sharply that it makes you jump. He wasn’t even wearing any gloves, and he sent it flying almost the other side of the wall like it was hit by a .50 calibre bullet. For all intents and purposes, it _was_ hit by a .50 calibre bullet. “Did you notice that your last punch was from your shoulder?”

You frown and look down at yourself. Sure enough, your body’s contorted in such a way that would infuriate your instructors at the academy. If you were still in school, you would be doing extra pull-ups until you were a sad, blubbering mess on the floor of the gym that they would sweep away with mops.

“See?” Michael’s distorted voice brings you out from your thoughts. By the way he’s tilting his head you’re quite sure he’s smirking. “You immediately corrected your stance once you sensed you were doing something wrong. Now I can only see…about half the number of openings I saw a moment ago.”

Nodding, you decide to continue working on the bag, this time making sure that you’re aware of how your arms and legs are in fact attached to your torso, and that if you were to try and rip someone’s head off in a flash of anger, you would at least look like you knew what you were doing.

“Now, it’s about a quarter.”

You faintly notice the buzz that encases Michael’s voice as your concentration falls back onto the punching bag. Your vision clouds and clears all at once, and the faces of your friends and enemies alike flicker before you. An endless abyss of memory that gazes back at you. A swat uniform. A friend from third grade. An FBI operative with a gaping hole in his head. The old man in a store lying lifelessly. Mouse. Kaidan. Hayne. Anna. Charlie. Megan. Anthony. Raquel. Gabriel. Michael.

“Keep your momentum. Do not hesitate.”

More faces flash behind your vision, and soon they become an unrecognisable glob that you know nothing and everything about. The familiarity in their techniques. The commonality in your foes and their weak points. Stomach, ribs, face, throat, navels. Twisted faces, exposed lies and buried memories. A leverage that’s begging to be used.

You duck only when it’s necessary and conserve your energy, feet firmly planted onto the ground and your rage directed at the point of contact. Your opponent staggers, and when you see one last opening, you meet the force of its swing with a force of your own, and in that final moment of concurrence, you and the beasts in your mind become…

 ** _one_**.

The punching bag _wretches_ away from you. The sound of it slamming against the wall echoes through the garage, and you look around to see if anyone else has come to see what’s making all that bloody noise, but it’s still just you and Michael. You stumble forward and lean against the wall, burying your head into the crook of your arms as you regain your senses. When you’re no longer in danger of passing out due to over-exertion, you lift your head and look up at him. As you were going ham with the poor punching bag, he’d moved a couple of steps away from its trajectory, standing beside you with his hands clasped behind his back. It takes a moment for you to notice just how close you are and how you can feel heat radiating from his body, but frankly you’re just too tired to mind the proximity.

“How many did you see just now?” you manage breathlessly.

He regards you as you turn around to face him and you try to catch your breath as he holds your gaze.

“None.” He replies.


End file.
